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of the camper.
    A drawer pulled partially out from under the bunk held an arsenal: I counted two rifles, another shotgun, several pistols, and a few things I had no clue about, but which looked pretty nasty.
    There was a tiny fridge, and I liberated a couple more sandwiches from that. I left the beer, with some regrets. Camping gear, some clothes. The faint smell of hellebore kept me from opening another cooler. I didn’t want a setback with more exposure to the hateful stuff, now that I was on the mend.
    On one end of the bunk was a stack of paper files held in place with a notebook computer.
    I looked through the files: names, photographs, and information. A memory stick jutted out of the side; I ejected it and stuck it in my pocket. A stack of business cards: Jacob Buell. My Nightmare Man had a name. The pictures in the files matched those playing cards I had in my pocket, but contained more data.
    Most of them were strays.
    It was everything I needed to be a werewolf hunter.
    Check that.
    I could be a werewolf-hunter.
    The door slammed shut. The engine roared, and I started to move. A hard bump from a pothole, and a grind of gears. It took me a minute to figure out what was happening, and by that time it was too late. I fell over, the bumps of the rutted farm road taxing the aging suspension of the truck.
    Someone—I had to assume it was Buell—was driving back to civilization, with me stowed away.
    He must have had a spare key for the cuffs, I thought.
    Oh, shit. Adam. Where was he?
    I pulled out my phone and tried to get a bead on where I was. I might be able to escape on my own, but chances might be better if I had some reinforcements.
    “Zoe!” Relief was mingled with anxiety in his voice. “It’s been over two hours! Where are you?”
    “I’m in the back of a pickup heading for”—I checked my route again—“the center of town. I’m trying desperately not to get kidnapped again. Where are you?”
    “What? Waiting at the parking lot, near where you left me. Kidnapped—?”
    I glanced out the window through the growing dark and tried to remember if this road led to the center of town, where I’d left Adam, or near the highway. “I’m going to try and jump out of here in about five minutes. I’ll try to let you know where I am, but I have to get out first. I don’t know if he knows I’m back here yet, but I’m not letting him get me to the highway.”
    “Shit, Zoe. What does the camper look like?”
    I described it. I was about to hang up when the gods smiled on me. Looking out the filthy window, I recognized the lights at the center of town. “Okay, remember that coffee shop where we ate this morning? I’m near there. There’s an intersection, just ahead. If you could get there—”
    “On my way.”
    I sagged with relief, knowing he’d be as good as his word. I carefully put my phone away and looked around the camper one more time. My bag was there, so I stuffed the notebook computer and some of the papers into it, made sure I had that deck of cards, and got ready. Watching my phone, I waited until we were a block ahead of the stop sign, and then I reached for the latch on the door.
    Locked.
    Buell must have done it when I was reading the notes, or it was out of habit, or else it had jammed. Or he’d heard me. I threw myself against it again and again, and it felt as if my shoulder was being turned into putty with each blow. There was no way I was going to be stuck in here and leave him to—
    We squealed to a stop. A screech of metal, and the door flexed.
    I heard a car door slam. Had it been the cab? More doors slamming .
    A symphony of horns followed. Someone out there had seen the door buckling, maybe. I threw myself against the door, desperate to escape. If it was Buell, then maybe I had a chance of knocking him over and escaping before he could do anything in front of an audience—
    A familiar scent—I looked up, not daring to believe, and renewed my attack on the door.
    A lurch